Diary of a hermit
I’ve hit the reef, folks. On this loveliest of Saturdays I woke up, after many attempts, and hit the gym. Through sheer force of will I managed to do some reading, and I felt fine, until I asked what my workout partner was doing tonight (I was going to suggest dinner.)
“I think I’m going barhopping,” she said.
“Stephanie, Josh, Michael, Farwig, Washer.”
And for some reason that did it. No one had told me about these plans – I was being rejected again. So I said that much, and it was pointed out to me that I’m still 4 months under the drinking age. That sentiment didn’t ring with me. I’ve seen way too many 18, 19, and 20 year old NU students hit the bars to think a 5’11, 180-pound guy with a reasonable ID would catch shit. So I pressed on, and got the other reason: why should they invite me when I always flip out and leave?
Bit of explanation. Recently, when I’ve been in public and felt the desire to go home, I have. Yesterday, at the movies, I got bored waiting for the credits to end (my peers wanted to see something afterward) and suggested going to get coffee. No one wanted to – they had the dorm screening room rented out in 15 minutes, and they were going to watch Twin Peaks. So I left and got coffee. Reason enough to ostracize me, I guess.
Ammendum: Those same peers ended up sitting outside my door bullshitting for almost an hour. So much for Twin Peaks.
These thoughts percolated as I grimaced and walked home, faster and faster. Washer IMed me and I told him I had a knife, which was true. He came up to stop me after I’d had a little fun with it, and a while later she came on his behest.
“You’re blowing this way out of proportion,” I was told. “You’re being a fucking drama queen.” And, with words I can’t remember the exact dimensions of, I was told that I couldn’t be treated with kid gloves forever.
So I sit here as my friends are hitting the bars, having eaten nothing but a diet shake, a cookie, and a few sugary candies, nursing a bottle of Turning Leaft Merlot 2000, pissed and destroyed. I can’t deal with people anymore. I can’t take one more interpersonal rejection. I’m … well, frankly, I’m scared to find out whether I can last the quarter.